The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (19 page)

“And if we
do
have anything up here?”

“Means our guy has been busy.”

“All right with you if I call this in? Just want to be sure you’re not winding me up.”

“Be my guest. My chief constable’s called James Corbyn—he knows all about it. But don’t waste more time than you have to.”

“There’s a constable here, his dad does portraits and graduations.”

“Doesn’t mean to say the constable knows one end of a camera from the other.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him—I was thinking of his dad.”

“Whatever works,” Rebus said, putting down the phone just as Ellen Wylie was doing the same.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“They’re going to send a photographer, if he’s not too busy at a wedding or kid’s birthday. How about you?”

“The officer in charge of the Guest investigation, I couldn’t speak to him personally but one of his colleagues filled me in. There’s some additional paperwork on its way to us. Reading between the lines, they weren’t busting a gut on the case.”

“It’s what they always tell you in training—the perfect murder is where nobody’s looking for the victim.”

Wylie nodded. “Or in this case, where no one’s grieving. They thought maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Now that’s original. Any evidence that Mr. Guest was a user?”

“Apparently so. Could have been dealing, too, owed money for goods and couldn’t...” She saw the look on Rebus’s face.

“Lazy thinking, Ellen. Same thing might explain why no one thought to connect the three killings.”

“Because nobody was trying very hard?” she guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly.

“Well,” she said, “you can ask him yourself.”

“Ask who?”

“Reason I couldn’t talk to the boss is that he’s right here.”

“Here?”

“Sent to Lothian and Borders CID.” She glanced down at her notes. “He’s a detective sergeant, name of Stan Hackman.”

“So where can I find him?”

“His pal suggested the student residences.”

“Pollock Halls?”

She shrugged, picked up the notepad and turned it toward him. “I’ve got his cell, if that helps.” As Rebus stalked toward her, she tore off the sheet and held it out to him. He snatched at it.

“Get on to whoever led the Isley inquiry,” he said, “see what you can get from them. I’ll go have a word with Hackman.”

“You forgot to say thank you.” Then, watching him shrug his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket: “Remember Brian Holmes?”

“I used to work with him.”

She nodded. “He told me once you had a nickname for him. Used to call him Shoeleather because he did all the donkey work.”

“Donkeys don’t wear shoes, do they?”

“You know what I mean, John. You’re swanning off and leaving me here—it’s not even my office! What does that make me?” She had picked up the telephone receiver and was waving it as she spoke.

“Switchboard, maybe?” he pretended to guess, heading for the exit.

13

S
iobhan wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I think,” Teddy Clarke said to his wife, “maybe we should listen to her this time.”

Siobhan’s mother wore a gauze patch over one eye. Her other eye was bruised, and there was a cut to the side of her nose. The painkillers seemed to have dulled her resolve; she just nodded when her husband spoke.

“What about clothes?” Mr. Clarke said as they got into the taxi.

“You can go to the camp later,” Siobhan told him, “bring back what you need.”

“We’d booked places on the bus for tomorrow,” he mused as Siobhan gave the driver directions to her place. She knew he meant one of the protest buses: a convoy heading to the G8. His wife said something he didn’t quite catch. He leaned closer, squeezing her hand, and she repeated it for him.

“We’re still going.” Her husband looked hesitant. “Doctor doesn’t see a problem,” Eve Clarke went on, clearly enough for Siobhan to hear.

“You can decide in the morning,” Siobhan said. “Let’s concentrate on today first, eh?”

Teddy Clarke smiled at his wife. “Told you she’d changed,” he reminded her.

When they reached the apartment, Siobhan paid for the taxi, waving aside her father’s offer of money, then headed upstairs ahead of her parents, checking the living room and bedroom. No underwear on the floor or empty Smirnoff bottles lying around.

“In you come,” she told them. “I’ll get the kettle on. Make yourselves at home.”

“Must be ten years since we’ve been here,” her father commented, making a little tour of the living room.

“I couldn’t have bought the place without your help,” Siobhan called from the kitchen. She knew what her mother would be looking for: signs of male occupation. Whole point of giving her money toward the deposit had been to help her “get settled,” that great euphemism. Steady boyfriend, then marriage, then kids. Not a route Siobhan had ever managed to start on. She took in the teapot and mugs, her father rising to help.

“You can pour,” she told him. “I just need to sort some things in the bedroom.”

She opened the wardrobe and hauled out her overnight bag. Tugged open drawers as she considered what she would need. With a bit of luck, she might not need any of it, but it was best to be safe. Change of clothes, toothbrush, shampoo...She delved to the bottom of a couple of drawers, finding the scruffiest, least-ironed items. Overalls she’d painted the hall in, one shoulder strap held on with a safety pin; a gauzy cotton shirt that had been left behind by a three-night stand.

“We’re driving you out,” her father said. He was in the doorway, holding a mug of tea toward her.

“There’s a trip I have to make, nothing to do with the two of you being here. I might not be back till tomorrow.”

“We could be gone to Gleneagles by then.”

“Might see you there,” she answered with a wink. “The pair of you will be all right tonight? Plenty of shops and places to eat. I’ll leave you a key.”

“We’ll be fine.” He paused. “This trip, is it to do with what happened to your mother?”

“Might be.”

“Because I’ve been thinking...”

“What?” She looked up from her packing.

“You’re a cop, too, Siobhan. If you keep on with this, chances are you’ll just make enemies.”

“It’s not a popularity contest, Dad.”

“All the same...”

She zipped the bag shut, left it on the bed, and took the mug from him. “I just want to hear him say he was wrong.” She took a sip of the lukewarm tea.

“Is that likely to happen?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her father had settled himself on a corner of the bed. “She’s determined to go to Gleneagles, you know.”

Siobhan nodded. “I’ll drive you to the camp, bring your things back here before I leave.” She crouched down in front of him, pressing her free hand to his knee. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“We’ll be fine. What about you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Dad. I’ve got a force field around me, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I think I might have caught a glimpse of it in Princes Street.” He placed his own hand over hers. “All the same, take care, eh?”

She smiled and stood up, saw that her mother was watching from the hallway, and shared the smile with her, too.

Rebus had been to the cafeteria before. In term time it was crowded with students, many of them just starting at the university, looking wary and even downright scared. A few years back, a second-year undergraduate had been dealing drugs; Rebus arrested him over breakfast.

The students who used the cafeteria brought laptops and iPods with them, so that even when busy the place was never noisy, except for the trilling of cell phones.

But today, the cafeteria rang with the sounds of harsh, raised voices. Rebus could sense the crackle of testosterone in the air. Two tables had been put together to form a temporary bar, from which small bottles of French lager were being sold. The No Smoking signs were being disregarded as uniformed officers slapped each other on the back and shared awkward approximations of the American high five. Stab vests had been removed, lined up against one wall, and the busy female staff were dishing out plates of fried food, red-faced either from exertion or the exaggerated compliments of the visitors.

Rebus was on the hunt for visual clues, for some sort of Newcastle insignia. At the gatehouse, he’d been directed to an old baronial-style building behind it, where a civilian assistant had found a room number for Hackman. But Rebus had knocked on the door without answer, so he had come here—the assistant’s next suggestion.

“Of course, he could still be in the field,” she’d cautioned, relishing the chance to use the phrase.

“Message received and understood,” Rebus had replied, helping to make her day even more satisfying.

There wasn’t a single Scottish accent in the cafeteria. Rebus saw uniforms from the Met and the London Transport Police, South Wales and Yorkshire...He decided to buy a mug of tea, only to be told there was no charge, having heard which he added a sausage roll and Mars Bar to his purchases. Asked a table if he could sit with them. They shifted to make some room.

“CID?” one of them guessed. Sweat had matted the man’s hair, and his face was flushed.

Rebus nodded, realizing he was the only bloke in the place not wearing a white shirt open at the neck. There was a smattering of female uniforms, too, but they were seated together, ignoring the various remarks launched in their direction.

“Looking for one of my number,” Rebus remarked casually. “A DS called Hackman.”

“You from round here then?” one of the other uniforms asked, placing Rebus’s accent. “Bloody beautiful city you’ve got. Shame we had to mess it up a bit.” His laughter was shared by his colleagues. “Don’t know any Hackman though.”

“He’s from Newcastle,” Rebus added.

“That lot over there are from Newcastle.” The officer was pointing to a table farther toward the window.

“They’re from Liverpool,” his neighbor corrected him.

“All look the bloody same to me.” There was more laughter at this.

“Where are you from then?” Rebus asked.

“Nottingham,” the first officer replied. “Guess that makes us the sheriffs. Food’s shit though, isn’t it?” He was nodding toward Rebus’s half-eaten sausage roll.

“I’ve had worse—at least it’s free.”

“That’s a proper Jock talking and no mistake.” The man laughed again. “Sorry we can’t help you find your friend.”

Rebus just shrugged. “Were you in Princes Street yesterday?” he asked, as if making conversation.

“Half the bloody day.”

“Nice bit of overtime,” his neighbor added.

“We had the same thing a few years back,” Rebus added. “Commonwealth heads of government meeting. Choggum, we called it. Few of the lads chipped a lump off their mortgages that week.”

“Mine’s going toward a vacation,” the uniform said. “Wife fancies Barcelona.”

“And while she’s there,” his neighbor said, “where will you be taking the girlfriend?” More laughter, elbows digging into ribs.

“You earned it yesterday though,” Rebus stated, getting them back on track.

“Some did,” came the reply. “Most of us sat on the bus, waiting for things to really kick off.”

His neighbor nodded. “Compared to what we’d been warned might happen, it was a walk in the park.”

“Photos in the paper this morning, at least some of you drew a bit of blood.”

“The Met boys probably. They train against Millwall fans, so yesterday was nothing special.”

“Can I try another name on you?” Rebus asked. “Guy called Jacko, might be with the Met.”

They shook their heads. Rebus decided he wasn’t going to get much more, so tucked his Mars Bar into his pocket and rose to his feet. Told them to take care and went for a wander. There were plenty of other uniforms milling about outside. If rain hadn’t been threatening, he suspected they’d be lying on the lawns. He overheard nothing approximating a Newcastle accent, and nothing about giving innocent protesters a good beating. He tried Hackman’s cell, but it was still switched off. On the verge of giving up, he decided to try Hackman’s room one last time.

And the door was opened from within.

“DS Hackman?”

“Who the hell wants to know?”

“DI Rebus.” Rebus showed his ID. “Can I have a word?”

“Not in here, there’s barely room to swing a cat. Place could do with a bit of fumigating, too. Hang on a sec...” As Hackman retreated into his room, Rebus made a quick examination: clothes strewn everywhere; empty cigarette packs; girlie mags; a personal stereo; can of cider sitting on the floor by the bed. Sound of horse racing from the TV. Hackman had picked up a phone and lighter. Patted his pockets till he found his key. Back out into the hall again. “Outside, yeah?” he suggested, leading the way whether Rebus liked it or not.

He was stocky: huge neck and close-cropped fair hair. Maybe early thirties, the face pitted and pockmarked, nose squashed to one side by a brawl too many. His white T-shirt had suffered too many washes. It rode up at the back, revealing the top of its owner’s underpants. He wore jeans and sneakers.

“Been working?” Rebus asked.

“Just back.”

“Undercover?”

Hackman nodded. “Ordinary man in the street.”

“Any trouble getting in character?”

Hackman’s mouth twitched. “Local cop?”

“That’s right.”

“I could do with a few tips.” Hackman glanced around at Rebus. “Lap bars are on Lothian Road, right?”

“There and thereabouts.”

“Which one should I grace with my hard-earned cash?”

“I’m not an expert.”

Hackman looked him up and down. “Sure about that?” he asked. They were outside now. Hackman offered Rebus a cigarette—readily received—and flicked his lighter open.

“Leith’s got its share of whorehouses, too, right?”

“Right.”

“And it’s legalized here?”

“We tend to turn a blind eye, so long as it’s kept indoors.” Rebus paused to inhale. “I’m glad to see it’s not all work and no play...”

Hackman gave a rasping laugh. “We’ve got better-looking women at home, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Your accent’s not Newcastle though.”

“Grew up near Brighton. Been in the northeast eight years.”

“See any action yesterday?” Rebus was making a show of studying the view before them—Arthur’s Seat rising skyward.

“Is this my debriefing?”

“Just wondering.”

Hackman narrowed his eyes. “What can I do for you, DI Rebus?”

“You worked the Trevor Guest murder.”

“That was two months back; plenty more in my in-box since.”

“It’s Guest I’m interested in. His trousers have turned up near Gleneagles, cash card in the pocket.”

Hackman stared at him. “He wasn’t wearing any when we found him.”

“Now you know why: killer’s been taking trophies.”

Hackman wasn’t slow. “How many?”

“Three victims so far. Two weeks after Guest, he struck again. Identical MO, and a little souvenir left at the same location.”

“Bloody hell...” Hackman drew hard on his cigarette. “We had it down as...well, lowlife like Guest makes plenty enemies. He was a druggie, too, hence the heroin—sending a message.”

“It went to the bottom of your in-box?” Rebus watched the big man shrug. “Any leads at all?”

“Interviewed those who owned up to knowing him. Traced his last night on earth, but didn’t come up with any startling conclusions. I can have all the paperwork sent—”

“Already in hand.”

“Guest was two months back. You say he struck again a couple of weeks later?” Hackman watched Rebus nod agreement. “And the other vic?”

“Three months ago.”

Hackman thought it through. “Twelve weeks, eight, then six. What you expect of killers once they get a taste for it—they speed up. Each new fix satisfies them that bit less than the one before. So what’s happened between then and now? Six weeks without another killing?”

“Sounds unlikely,” Rebus agreed.

“Unless we’ve caught him for something else; or he’s moved his business elsewhere.”

“I like the way you think,” Rebus admitted.

Hackman looked at him. “You’ve already figured out everything I’ve just said, haven’t you?”

“That’s why I like your thinking.”

Hackman gave a scratch to his crotch. “All I’ve been thinking about the past few days is pussy—now you go and do this to me.”

“Sorry about that.” Rebus stubbed the remains of his cigarette. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Trevor Guest—anything that sticks in your mind.”

“For the price of a cold beer, my head is your oyster.”

Problem with oysters, Rebus considered as they walked to the cafeteria, was that you were more likely to get a load of old grit than a pearl.

The place had quieted a little, and they found a table to themselves—though not before Hackman had made an effort to introduce himself to the female officers, formally taking each one by the hand.

“Lovely,” he announced as he returned to Rebus’s table. He clapped his palms together and was rubbing them as he sat down. “Bottoms up,” he said, raising his bottle. Then he gave a little chuckle. “Should be the name of a lap-dancing club.”